Elysian Fields
by OnigiriReject
Summary: "If I don't leave this quiet mountain town I swear I will die here." Kyle Broflovski is sixteen and going crazy. He's desperate to get out of South Park, his only home his entire life. He's confused, angry, and feels more alone than ever, so why not work at the dingy strip club? Wait - is that Cartman? Shit! Originally posted as Heaven 2 years ago.
1. Fail Hard to Regain

Chapter One: Fail Hard to Regain

/\/\/\

Sometimes, I swear I can fly.

No seriously. The bass will rattle my skull and the high will hit me long and hard. My eyes roll back and I fall. I ask myself the newly-personal mantra,

"Where did I go wrong?"

Some time in my childhood, when I was almost killed, I decided dying would be a great option.

But I mean, I've been in more near-death instances than I'd like to recall. Thanks to my best friends, I always managed to pull out of them in the nick of time.

But, Stan seems happy. My jealousy doesn't allow me to be the friend he deserves and be just happy to watch him grow and move on.

Red warmth trickles out of my nose as I dab it, glancing around the vanity littered with duct tape and tampon applicators. Porsche's cigarette tail wisps out of the ashtray to my right, while Ferrari jabbers emphatically at Cadillac.

A personification of regret stares back at me through the streaked looking glass. The cloudy muted green of my eyes rests in bruised hollows of eyeliner and fake lashes.

It might be stupid but that teapot changed my life. I was coming home from school, it being colder that day than usual, my breathing melting the snow on my cheeks. That etched white thing did not leave its spot on the entry cabinet for sixteen going on seventeen years.

My whole life, it hadn't been used. Touched, even. It sat there, the very spirit of the white China seeming to drain from it in pessimistic oozing. So I threw it. Liberated it, if you will.

The satisfaction of the explosion proved short lived. Soon, all dishes were crashing. Wall shelves leaving kisses of nails, the hall painting being made into two halves of a table setting. The next thing I remember is Ike screaming six inches from my face, my hands pinned behind my back pinned to the floor. Broken ceramic made abstract snowflakes fall through the hallway and kitchen. My forearms and neck covered in red blood blossoms.

"Look dude, sometimes people just snap."

Stan and I met over a cinnamon bun at the South Park mall. He stabbed a frosty piece with his plastic fork and put it on his tongue, wrapping his lips around it. I heard the licking and smacking and crushing of the disgusting thing in his mouth.

The echoes of his digestion ring in my head as I fight the urge to run. To keep running, and never turn around, never look back, leaving him to his school and sleep and girlfriend.

My parents want me close, I'm the older brother, the brains to my brother Ike's brawn and popularity and looks. I could be the next Steve Jobs if I wanted, or so I thought.

I needed to escape. The walls began to close as my throat tightened, my brain working fast to come up with solutions to my own personal hell.

If I don't leave this quiet mountain town I swear I will die here. So there's dying, or there's leaving.

My escape is simple:

1) Do well in school for scholarship to prestigious Ivy League on the East Coast. Away.

2) Make money to afford rent and fund future endeavors. For the away.

School was easy, I could bury myself in equations and ancient European conquests until I forgot my name. Easier than facing myself transforming into something unrecognizable.

And so in the wee hours of the nigh, the job hunt began.

No one was really hiring. I couldn't let my family find out about my job because they wanted me focusing on school and SAT prep, so I couldn't have asked them for help. Asking peers at school seemed out of the question considering I had basically been acting like a corpse for the last two years, and I doubted any of them really wanted to help me out.

It seemed I had found the answer to my financial woes the next week, on a Craigslist ad.

 _Entertain high class guests in upscale club, hours vary, private contractors only._

It was a regular deux ex machina as far as I was concerned, so I jotted down the address and headed straight there after school the next day.

/

The air hung heavy with sewage and pollution, populated with gnats and stubborn jetsam tumbling from the highway. The clouds hang low in the grey sky, gifting the sweltering summer day with a brief reprieve from the sun. I kneaded the rubber of my bike handles, trying to pry my sticky callouses from the gear shifts.

What was once a strip mall stood on unkempt cement, flagged by rows of dirt-speckled vehicles. A Chinese restaurant was just opening for lunch hour, the red neon scribbles buzzing on as a mysterious hand flipped the hanging sign from a friendly "Welcome! We're Open!"

I shifted my weight on the seat of the bike and tucked a loose sweaty curl behind my ear. I could practically hear Mom telling me, yet again, how special and beautiful I was but how the hair could give the wrong impression. We wanted to appear open and friendly and, normal, and the neighbor's boys looked nothing like me. Ike, though, was perfection in his lanky overgrown Canadian build. Mom and Dad were lovely to adopt, but when your little brother looms over you in every sense on a daily basis, you become nothing but a shadow. A ginger shadow, with less fucks given than a cheap whore.

The building of my piqued interest stood with silent judgment, short yet imposing, as being this far from the capital, the buildings shrunk and the highways grew, and vegetation clumped together in pine forests sprouting through the thick snow.

The stink of fries being dumped into the garbage wafted from the Wendy's on the other side of the lot, causing the nausea to hit me in yet another wave. The empty leather wallet pressed against my lack-of-ass, in my ripped jeans. I take another long look at the club, sigh, and decide to lock my bike up.

Angels was one of the two strips clubs within a ten mile radius that was considered "upscale," if you could ever call a strip mall strip club that. It used to be a Raisins, but was shut down years ago for failing multiple health inspections (don't ask about the tots). A new owner redesigned the place and hired most of the girls again, ditching food in favor of topless girls. The low lighting and loud music initially threw me as I entered the establishment the first time.

Mistaken as a patron, a bouncy blonde quickly gestured me over to a table toward the back. She brought me a water once I stated I was there for an interview. While I waited, I watched the green bills rain down on the gyrating ass of a raven-haired girl with small tits.

The owner was named Mr Yamamoto, a Japanese business man, his ventures being various investments in dating apps, clothing lines, and strip clubs. The dancers can walk out with four hundred to a few thousand a night, I learned. A fortune compared to a measly twelve I earned as a waitress working the same hours.

I know I was lucky to find a place that paid under the table, therefore not requiring an ID from me. But I was greedy, the money tempted me. Dollar signs danced between me and my dream of leaving South Park, Colorado, forever.

Yamamoto san did not see the harm in hiring a teenage boy to food run and refill drinks necessarily, but when I asked if he needed dancers he was shocked.

I found the money from waiting on drunk idiots not worth the long hours and embarrassment at even being there.

Originally the topless dancers bothered me in concept more than physicality. They eventually became as interesting as the peeling glitter wallpaper or the streaks on the mirror while windexing them in the dark. I never saw the girls as sexual, I found the whole ordeal repulsive. A relationship based on an obvious exchange of power like that feels wrong.

I'm still not used to the pole. Yamamoto said I could start working as a dancer after I auditioned, so I would stay after my shift was over and the tables cleared. The bartender, a blonde alternative woman in her early twenties named Volks, would be breaking down the bar while I attempted to spin. Grace wasn't even an option at that point, I just wanted to not fall off.

Porsche, the raven-haired girl I saw before my interview, took notice at my attempts.

"You're starting on the wrong leg," she advised. From there I slowly began to master different spins as my arms and legs became more spotted with purplish green bruises. My lack of girl parts gave me more strength in my arms and less finesse. I am not sexy. I do not understand how to be sexy other than lipstick and no clothes.

My life transformed again, this time without the help of a pathetic melt down in my parents' entryway. I sleep two hours a night if I'm lucky, my lack of breakfast unnoticed as I dart to school an hour early, to cram for the literature essay test. once out of school, I attend the obligatory dinner with the family, pushing the kosher stuffs and excusing myself early. I'm focused. I sneak out by climbing the roof and dropping to the backyard, trying not to slip on the ice. Sometimes I say I'm staying at Stan's or Kenny's. Mom doesn't ask because she's trying a hands off parenting approach as suggested by her therapist, and dad just trusts implicitly.

My whole present life became about my future life.

My friends, at the very least, noticed the change rumbling in me. The late hours, the bags under my eyes. The daily questions at the lunch table and walks to school made me anxious so I began to avoid it, preferring to run to school to burn extra calories and eat 53 gram serving of a red apple at 72 calories, plus a medium black coffee I bought from the teachers lounge (class pet has its perks). The guys would ask me to go play football a few times or go to an arcade, or even to some parties, but I always turned them down.

I couldn't tell my best friends for life I was planning on leaving our home, and them. Little did they know I was already halfway gone, my thoughts anywhere but there.

Lunch at South Park high entailed the five of us claiming the best spots: the roof or the unused locker room in the east building. Because it was getting torn down in a year, no one bothered to look in the old gym spaces once they moved to the renovated shiny new one. Sometimes token or Craig would join us, other times Wendy would sit with Stan and quietly study, preferring to ace her studies than practice her social skills with the likes of Cartman and Kenny.

This particular day it was only the core five. I basked in the rare sunny warmth breaking the overcast last 4 days. I chewed on my ( 52 gram) Apple and checked my step count on my phone (7652). I removed my hair from the rubber band and combed my fingers through the bright red tangle, my grey ushanka tucked neatly into my green backpack for later.

I could feel the heat of his eyes boring through me, as they had the last two weeks we'd been in the same room. Initially I thought I was crazy. Then I knew I was but discovered Cartman's hazel golds glowing at me from three persons away.

"You look like shit, Kahl."

"Thanks lardass."

"No problem faggot."

Our minimal exchange left me regretting the cheap shot. He'd gotten bigger in muscle, the fat melting away in his gym days with Butters. Easily six feet and thickly built, he would punch me in the stomach with his large hands sometimes when he felt like being a particularly large ass hole, reminding me through the pain he could kick the shit out of me now.

While I ignored the staring, Stan seemed content in his relationship with Wendy. They both wore purity rings Wendy had purchased during the summer before freshman year. Both silver with little hands holding a heart, on their left hands, a promise to remain pure and true to each other. Despite this, he was holding out hope for a birthday handjob or something else deemed culturally "acceptable." He said she would always stop before unhooking her bra and keeping his hands above her breasts and below her knees. Stan was miserable yet determined.

Outside of exploring his girlfriend, interning at his dad's job kept him busy outside of schoolwork. His best subject was literature, his poetry began to garner the attention of his teachers. Some was sent out to competitions. This made him take himself a bit more seriously.

Kenny spent his free time perusing the local strip clubs, doing who knows what with God knows who. He finally stopped covering his face with a hood and upgraded to shaggy hair and a bandana around his neck in middle school. He insisted the combination of E and blow kept him warm, but the side effect of women combing his hair seemed to be the truth. He would joke he had this epiphany between the seventeenth time he burned to death and before he accidentally ingested rat poison. The epiphany being pure hedonism was the only way to live.

Butters took to wrestling in 5th grade, followed by self-defense classes and weight lifting. He bragged about bench pressing 250 recently, and I could only nod in mild understanding of the significance. Outside of his humble speech, he was Barely recognizable as the same stuttering mess of a blonde kid. He'd sit with us sometimes, mostly talking to Cartman while scarfing down 2 Peanut butter banana jelly sandwiches. Sometimes it would leave traces on his face and he'd lick it off while discussing his latest trend of pushing his physical limits.

"Ya see I was thinking if I incorporated lunges between the warm up run and dead lifts, I could increase my endurance. What do you think Cartman?"

"Butters, just shoot yourself up with some used steroid needles for all I care." Cartman replied, still watching me. Butters deflated slightly and glanced toward me, studying my face as well. "What happened?" I realize the fat-ass is addressing me. "You get dumped by your right hand? Hahaha, classic. Get it because you've never had a lay and your face says virgin, I just owned you."

I shifted uncomfortably as Kenny chuckled and flipped the next page of the 2005 playboy. He paused and rotated the zine until the centerfold dropped open and a smile broke across his face. "Eric you talk so much about Kyle's dick I wonder where your dick itches to be?"

"Shut up," I retort, tightening the rubber band around my mess of hair and letting go. My auburn ponytail splashes between my shoulder blades and I take a sip of water from my thermas.

Stan interjected, "This is stupid. So what if we haven't had sex yet? You can quit ragging on us Cartman, it's not like yours was even consensual, it doesn't count."

Cartman frowned, his short choppy dark brown hair falling into his forehead. "It counted when you wanted to hear the details after summer break,"

"Yeah how many times ago?" Stan zips his black large messenger bag closed and clutches a crumpled a used brown bag in his left hand.

The air grew colder as the sun tucked behind the thick grey of overcast. I close my eyes.

"So what? You don't talk anymore?

Cartman turned his attention to me again as Butters scooted toward Kenny, curiously peaking over his shoulder at the buxom brunette. His jeans made a scratching noise against the dirty plaster of a roof.

"That looks like Lexus!" He said, shocked.

The shaggy blonde smirked and moved his face closer to the publication, "Yeah it's probably her. I saw her at Temptation a while ago, the other girls say she travels to LA And Miami for photo shoots."

Cartman once drunkenly ragged on Butters for a supposed tattoo of Lexus' portrait on his chest, something the rest of our friend group did not want to know if it truly existed. Kenny either forgot or found it funny to poke Butters in his childhood dream of a relationship.

"So Kahllll..." He drew out my name with his annoying coy tone, "You don't need to try to hard to be a colossal pussy."

"Leave me alone Cartman."

"See you're Jewish, even without the ponytail and tortured genius look you're trying to wear, you were born weaker, so you can relax."

His anti semetism as amusing as ever, I turned sharply and looked him square in the Face. Somewhere between the lack of sleep and plutos symposium-filled morning, I found in myself stupidity disguised as bravery. "I might look like a pussy, but at least I have a future outside of jail and burning crosses."

White hot pain snapped me under my jaw as my head arched backward and I lost balance. I hit the plaster floor fast and the endless grey of the sky danced before me. Stan screamed something and ran at Cartman, while Kenny and butters voiced protest, but it sounded far away.

Sometimes, I really hate myself.

That was the last conversation with Cartman, about a week ago. Stan and I split off for lunch in his Dad's old pick up every day since, and the girls at the club showed me how to blend the swollen purple into my jawline.

And so today, I stretch and inhale deeply, to make sure I'm calm before I get called onstage for the first time.

Black vinyl booty shorts and a royal purple snap off, courtesy of the girls taking pity on the quiet faggot. The girls did my makeup. It's hard to tell if I am a girl or boy, between the dramatic black eyeliner and smoky eyes, and the black button down. Porsche and Mercedes insisted I leave my hair down.

Despite their obvious enthusiasm at their Frankenstein monster, The mirror betrays them. Despite the pure androgyny of the red headed person, the eyes look as desperate and scared as I felt. It's leave or rot. I'm going to fly away one day, and this is necessary or I will regret it.

"Now on stage its... Starr! Give it up for Starr, she's new so let's give her a big round of applause. No shyness allowed in Angels."

Of course even the dj didn't know I wasn't female. It doesn't bother me, more money. I recalled images of singles raining on the girls before me and took a step onto the stage.

My eyes adjusted to the dark club and I could make out three silhouettes of customers. I attempted confidence as the music began. A german harsh voice accompanied a steady drum until the guitar began to shred, and I spun. The feeling of flying took over as I quickly moved from the ground to the pole, my muscles burning and my hair flipping into my face.

The music ended before I knew it. I just did what I'd been doing the last few months, zoning out everything around me.

My head swam in the dizziness from a combination of lack of food, a liquid courage glass of Merlot, and the abrupt stop to my spinning. A silhouette-customer moved to the seat in front of the stage and left three singles at my feet during the set. He held a five in his hand, so I walked toward him to retrieve my winnings.

"Thank you," I began, smiling sheepishly. I guess I did okay."

"No, thank _you_ Kahl."

Why.

A wide smile is spread across Cartman's face as he eyes me like I am a plump mouse- and he is the cat, his hazel eyes glowing with amusement.

i felt my future crashing all around as i gingerly removed the five from his grip. I atrempt a smile but end up with a deranged twitchy face.

"Give it up for Starr! Nice work girl," the dj says in tbe same bored tone. "Next up is Cadillac."

I walk off the stage as if I have a metal pole for a spine. My shirt lightly blows, the front opened exposing my bare chest. I count be a flat girl, or a fucking retarded boy walking to his demise at the hands of a sadist.

Porsche is making landing pilot hand signals at me as I pick put my shameful eight dollars into the plainest black clutch I could use. She is mouthing,

"Sit with him" at me. It's customary to sit and thank those who tip you, and it seems he's the only one who enjoyed the culmination of my fuck ups.

He returned to a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. As I walk up as confidently as I can wearing barely anything, I notice he's wearing a black plaid shirt with red details and a dark wash of jeans, his red jacket replaced by light brown leAther jacket. I notice a knife hanging on his belt, and vaguely wonder if he brings that to school too and I'm just oblivious. His hair a short choppy mess, he didn't look up as I pulled the chair across from him out and sat.

He pretended to be interested in Cadillac doing floor work. I frown and begin to snap my shirt closed, bottom to top. We remain like that, me silently snapping and him sitting like a smug predator, until I find the only words I can think to ask.

"What... do you want?" I mumble at him, my words dripping with contempt. The familiar urge of sprinting away slowly swells over my body, my chest tightening and my hands shaking. One of my red curls unceremoniously falls in my face.

The brown haired sixteen year old fixes his eyes on me, his smile widening as he leans across the table. The lights move above us, switching between blues and pinks.

His eyes laugh as he states simply, "two glasses of champagne. After all it looks like Christmas came early. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Jew?


	2. So Crazy

**Chapter 2: So Crazy**

My heart is beating in my ears. I look over my champagne glass cautiously at the fat-ass, and notice he's still watching me with his narrowed hazel eyes.

This is fucking unreal.

He asks the first question, testing the waters of the new complexity of our mutual hatred. "So Kahl, are you an attention whore or just gay?"

Ignoring the obvious jibe, I wonder, should I lie? If he finds out I'm that desperate for money, he could use it against me. I can already hear the ringing of 'cheap Jew family with a Jewish American princess for a son.'

"I'm not here because I had a choice, Cartman," I admit quietly. Mr. Yamamoto is looking from behind the bar. I smile in an attempt to look like nothing's wrong. If desperate, I could get Cartman kicked out if I say he's harassing me. The bouncers would be thrilled.

But on my first official day? Looks bad.

"Why are you here?" I ask him. Booze or bitches are the expected response. He turned back toward the stage, his face relaxing in the violet light. He dangled one harm over the back of his chair lazily.

"What else is there to do in this stupid little town?" He sighed slightly, his words tinged with the same realization I came to.

I tentatively handled the long stem of the glass and chewed on my lip. A silence fell once again. I absentmindedly note Cadillac's set ended and she joined an older man at the bar; the DJ announced Ferrari was next as Black Widow began.

"So what do you want?" I repeat.

Cartman faced me, a feigned look of confusion on his brow. "You mean with the knowledge of your... extracurricular activities?" An evil smile, "I'll figure something out. I don't want to be rash with my dealings or I could make a mistake and let you off easy. Although I will admit, this is going to be _fun_."

The crushing sense of defeat intertwined with gloom hits me in the chest. Cartman fails to notice and downs the last of his champagne. He waves the waitress, a girl named Mary, over and gets two more glasses of champagne. My head begins to swim as I finish the first glass and I vaguely wonder how many calories are in champagne before realizing he ordered me another one.

Mary _tnks_ the the two fresh ones on our table. I know Cartman has a fake ID, he bragged about it enough last year when he and Kenny bought them off some community college jerks. I didn't know he was in the habit of using it though.

"You look very pretty, _Starr_ ," his deep voice saccharine with a slight slur. "How much for a dance?"

Yep. That's the Cartman I know.

I roll my eyes and reply curtly, "One, never, two, I don't do that, and three, still never."

He smiles and tilts his head forward, smugly shaking it, "Silly Starr, all dancers give dances. Usually for twenty dollars, more if I want a private room and a bottle of champagne. Didn't you read your contract?"

I pause. He was right about both, I just didn't expect him to know. "How do you know that? Still never."

He stretches his arms behind him and puffs out his chest. "I've been to enough clubs. I have a lot of time since I don't sleep and this place is more interesting than my bedroom walls when I need to jerk off."

More blunt honesty I didn't ask for. I laugh and reply before I can stop myself, "Because no one would willingly fuck you."

I begin to take another sip of my champagne when he grabs my wrist, hard. I see the rage and face it with my own indifference. Why does he get so angry? It should just slide off his back, after how many years we've been at this.

"Yes, _Starr_ , I have a healthy sexual appetite, _Starr_ ," he draws out the r's my pseudo name. "Unlike some people that wear women's clothes. Or others that are into exhibitionism. Or worse, both. Those people are just downright… sick."

I wrench my arm away from his grasp and unceremoniously drown myself in the rest of the champagne. I practically slam the glass down and meet his gaze again. He looks so damn pleased with himself.

Champagne swimming in my head, I begin to reply before I can stop myself, "And why do I care what you think? I'm not into wearing women's clothes or showing myself off nakedly. I'm here to do what I need to do, that's it. And if you're not going to tell anyone else just so you can torture me, go ahead! And if you are going to tell everyone, can you at least let me know first so I can be as gone as I want?! You're such a pathetic asshole for even coming to a place like this. Don't you have _actual people_ you can talk to that you're not paying? Oh wait, no, everyone hates you because you're a conniving racist dickhead."

Liquid courage is right. I'm slightly out of breath as I watch the words ineffectually go in one of his ears and out the other. A minute later and still no reply, he seems to be watching me. My brief tangent done, the apathy returns.

Why did I even bother?

I push myself off the table, the chair scraping against the rug, and state. "I don't care. Just do what you will."

I stand and it feels as if both my feet are made of jelly. In one swift movement, as I put my left foot down, I lose my balance and my chin meets with the carpeted floor. I cringe with the painful realization it was the same spot he hit a week before, the bruise still green on my skin. Today fucking sucks. I'm afraid to glance back at Cartman, getting the feeling he's about to laugh his ass off. Instead, I watch his black tennis shoes from my comfy floor position as he stands and walks over to me.

I lie motionless on the black carpet as he puts one of his hands out toward me, a smirk on his face. "That's what you get for being a little bitch." I look between his rough palm and his smirk as my brain slowly processes the fact he wants me to grab hold of it.

I'm wobbly as I push myself off the ground and take hold of his hand, which is much larger than my own. He yanks me upward and I stumble headfirst into his chest, my small body enveloped in his. The sharp smell of liquor fills my nostrils with undertones of fresh, clean skin.

"You've gotten smaller, Kahl," he remarks quietly. My face heats up and I push myself away from him, my palms resting momentarily on the soft cotton of his broad chest. "I think even if you tried to dance on me, your ass would be too boney that it would hurt."

This time I do run, and by run I mean walk as quickly as I can without getting fired, into the dressing room, where I grab the couch cushions and scream until I'm heaving, drowned out by the loud trap music.

/\/\/\

Last night is a blur. The only think I know is that Cartman knows, and I'm fucked. I hold my head at my desk, staring down at the lined paper, willing the bullet points on existentialism to appear.

"Who actually read the book?" I ask my group mates. Annoyance. Frustration.

Token and Stan pretend to not see each other as Cartman taps away at his smartphone, not hiding it at all. Kenny sits behind him in Wendy's group, playing against Cartman on some phone game.

Today is okay. It's been eighteen hours since I put anything in my body. It's fine, it's clean. I have control of this. I can do this. No failing.

I can't make Cartman work today. I don't trust he will keep it a secret. I will let him have a vacation day so as not to perturb the matter.

"Dude, let's just get this done," Stan says, narrowing his eyes and trying to read a passage in the middle of the book. "Who's Raskolnikov?"

I roll my eyes, "The main character. Kills the old pawn broker and her sister."

"Oh," Stan says. He glances over his shoulder and looks at Wendy in another group. She giggles and waves at him, I try to tune it out. How long had it been since Stan and I hung out? A few months probably. He never tried to initiate anything after my home situation got pretty bad- mostly because about the same time, he and Wendy got back together. He wasn't abandoning me.

"I really don't want to fucking do this," Kenny says from the next group over.

"Well, we have to," I say, glancing over at Kenny in annoyance. He sighs and pushes some strands of blonde hair behind his ears.

Cartman sighs loudly. "Well if the Jew says we have to do it, then by all means guys, we have to. After all, he is the ruler of all things-

"Not in the mood," I snap, trying to bury the shit before it hits the fan. " You actually read the book this time, right? You can contribute to our group."

Stan says, "Dude, cut it out, both of you. I just want to get this done."

"So you can get back to your girlfriend?" I snap without meaning to. Stan looks surprised, then smiles.

"Yes, actually," he obviously didn't hear the bitterness in my voice. Conjoined at the hip.

"Kahl?" Cartman says innocently. "Don't worry."

"You're calming him down? That's a first," Stan comments.

Cartman bats his eyelashes and locks his hands together. "Don't worry Kahl... I'm not gonna tell your secret."

I crane my neck toward him and stare, attempting to light him on fire with the pure loathing.

"What secret?" Kenny turns around in his seat, looking between Cartman and I.

Cartman smiles to himself. "Nope, not gonna tell." He shakes his head.

He can't tell. No way. Everything gets around. Stan looks at him, "I doubt you know anything."

"But I do, Little Stan, and believe me, it's a doozy."

I plead, "Cartman please, you can't."

Kenny's face flowers into genuine surprise, "He does know something? What is it?"

"He doesn't know anything."

"Oh, but I do Kahl, but I promised I wouldn't tell."

"What does he know Kyle?"

"Come on! How does he know something? What is it? Secret girlfriend?"

Ringing. I can't hear them. Cartman's face goes from gleeful to annoyance as he peers curiously at me. He sighs, then he grabs my arm and pulls me upward as he stands up.

"What are you doing, asshole?" Stan asks.

Cartman points at me, "He's obviously really sick. Can't you tell? Getting to the nurse before he pukes all over me, I like my clothes."

As we leave the room, Kenny calls after us, "But does he know something or is he just fucking with us? I bet you he's fucking with us." I follow the larger teen's footsteps until he turns and we're in the men's restroom. I'm should probably pay attention...

He yanks me behind him and looks for feet under the stalls before turning toward me.

"Kahl, I'm not gonna tell anyone. I was fucking with you. You responded poorly."

"Because I should trust that?" I ask curtly. He rolls his eyes.

"No but it's either that or you drive yourself crazy with the 'will he? Won't he?' crap." He used a mockingly high pitched tone when imitating me.

"I'd rather that then trust you, someone who has brought countless horrible things into my life, this being the latest."

He grabs me by both my arms and shoves me against the wall. Pain radiates from my back- I wince but he doesn't let up. He lowers his face into mine and loudly reiterates, "I. AM. NOT. GOING. TO. TELL. ANYONE. I like my victims helpless and leaning on me, I like watching the struggle, telling everyone would be counter intuitive."

"Didn't think you knew what that meant, Cartman," I don't care. I push his hands off me and he lets go. I didn't like being at that close a proximity with him. "You're sadistic."

"And you're crazy, kike," he replies shortly before pushing open the entrance. "Also, I don't starve my victims. It's barbaric for my tastes. You might want to consider your stance on it."

Fuck you, Cartman.


	3. The Unraveling

**Chapter 3: The Unraveling**

I am still not a sexy girl. Whenever I go on stage, male customers are unhappy to see my lack of tits. Some are intrigued, probably only because there's a large population of men in the closet here. I swear I've seen many of my past teachers and government officials lurking in the back.

I'm still not talking to customers much, and no one has bought a private dance. I'm allowed in my own head, just to zone everything out. It's still an escape for now. Especially when Cartman isn't there, reminding me of my status as the inhouse transvestite.

I catch my reflection in my bedroom mirror. the stark, pale nakedness greets me, with raccoon smudges from makeup after returning to work. My eyes buried in deep dark bags is a reminder that sleep is overrated. There's traces of glitter trapped in my arm hair, the one area I hadn't decided to shave. Too much yet.

My grueling new workouts combined with my teenage hunger strike have left me a fraction of the boy. A human shaped bag of bones, but still too big. My clothes are hanging loose now. Luckily the Colorado mountain winters lasted year round and I could just layer on another shirt. None the wiser. the closer I get to weightlessness is the closer I get to truly flying.

127.8 pounds.

I jump on the slim glass scale for the third time. It creaks an answer of 127.4 pounds. Which is it you stupid piece of shit. Less food equals more money, more money means I'm leaving sooner.

I slide the scale back under my bed, my hand brushing the moss green comforter, and pull open the blinds. The sun had finally broken the horizon line; my family will be up soon.

After a quick shower, I mess up the bed to make it look slept in and hide my black duffle of dance wear, makeup and heels in the bottom of my closet before camouflaging it with other items. I yank down a simple mauve (Porsche had explained new colors to me, that there were in fact varying degrees of brown and purple) long sleeve shirt and pull it on, along with a dark wash of denim. I wear the same pants practically everyday because the others have become noticeably baggy.

I finger comb my wet mess of curls and wonder how much of a disappointment I'd be to Mom if she found out about my counting. Or my job. They'd probably try to have a Lifetime special moment around the dining room table, even inviting Stan. They'd have that talking pillow Mom obtained a few years back from marriage counseling with Dad, and pass it around, tearfully explaining things I already knew. Stan probably wouldn't say anything. Kenny would just laugh that I'm not as goody two shoes as he thought, but they didn't like his lack of showering, and didn't usually invite him over when they had a choice. Would they be that fickle when they thought my life was at stake? Mom cared about everyone else's business in the neighborhood.

Cartman wouldn't be invited. Mom and Dad haven't forgotten the time we went on vacation and he used the front of our house as a drive in movie theater for a week long showing of Passion of the Christ. Kenny told me he charged five bucks a head. We came back to find wheel tracks through our lawn and my room slept in, with a special biography on Hitler wrapped and placed on my pillow.

That stupid ass has made my life hell, everything from small pranks (having a bucket water fall on me when I enter class) to pure evil. he's the reason I have a lock on my bedroom door and window. Barely a day goes by without a threat or insult, my existence has become a daily necessity to torture, like breathing.

It seems once puberty took hold, he found more interest in fucking around with Kenny and drinking while I cared more about my grades. He consistently never did homework and skipped classes, while I used to stay behind at the school library and study, but now that I want money, it all seems less important. He would copy off Kenny, who was copying off me, until I realized Cartman was getting away scot free. That was when I cared too much about everything, it was simpler now.

I realized that the moment I stopped giving a fuck, the adventures stopped. It was a perverse hell that kept the five of us tied to each other in a cosmic joke. The other four seem to have moved on from it. Sometimes I hear about Kenny dying again, but it's much less frequent.

But the curse that tied us together was only fueled by my moral code. It made me care about outcomes and try my hardest to do the best thing for everyone involved, which kept pulling me into the next stupid adventure. Once that was gone, I was left with only myself and my friends, and now only myself.

I used to believe in God. I used to remind myself I was just lucky to exist in his universe, to be alive. Before the bitterness at my situation set in, I was grateful. Then I blamed the God for the constant miscellaneous shit happening. Until I let go, and it all stopped.

Instead now I realize it wasn't God keeping us repeating our mistakes (me caring too much, Kenny not caring enough, Stan wanting to do the right thing, and Butters never standing up for himself until it was too late). It wasn't karmic retribution followed by learning something each day, for we never seemed to learn anything.

Instead, it was Cartman.

Cartman kept us involved in those horrible things. Every single one was his fault in some way. From insulting one of us and egging us on, to him butting his nose where it didn't belong. His constant need to be in the middle of world altering events have led him to be personally investigated by the military.

He stopped mentioning plans of domination and thrusting himself into issues of foreign affairs and domestic safety once the FBI made frequent visits to his home. The FBI and military seemed to realize what I already knew. If Cartman gave more of a crap about anything, he could very well rule the world.

After one of the many visits a few years back, his mom called my mom. I picked up the other line to eavesdrop, but hung up after a minute of hearing her sobbing.

"I didn't become a mom to have my son ruin my life."

I sit on the soft mattress and listen for sounds of my family waking up through the walls. I try to push thoughts of Cartman from my head and insist to myself: Today will be a good day.

It is Saturday and Kenny insisted we go see a movie or something. It could be fun. Once, I found joy in these little things, but now I can't look at this city without feeling cold tethers snaking up my legs.

And so I grab my wallet, keys, and black bomber jacket, and wade through the coming anxiety by repeating:

Today will be a good day.

"We're going to the carnival!" Kenny says triumphantly as we stand in a dusty damp Home Depot parking lot, staring at the underwhelming entrance. Less of a carnival and more of a dump, this is exactly the kind of thing Kenny would find amusing. Instead of enjoying it for the rides or games, he seemed to get more out of the disgruntled employees and crappy food.

The ticket holder looks at our ragtag group suspiciously. Stan came, so Wendy had to come, so Bebe tagged along, so Craig and Clyde took interest and dragged Token. And Cartman arrived with Butters in tow. Then there's me, no microgroup. Having left my house six hours earlier, I was eager to finally see what was in store.

"Kenny, you sure this is worth it?" Token asks as his eyes dart between the ferris wheel towering above and the broken beer bottles near the garbage cans.

"Totally!" the blonde replies in sincerity, smiling through a chipped front tooth. He wore a black hoodie with a white Baphomet on the front, and torn faded jeans. From his frequent dealings, I knew he had more money than his attire let on.

"That's what you said about jumping in the half frozen lake while we tripped," Clyde said monotonously. He truly had become the most handsome guy in our grade, as predicted by the stupid list years earlier. However what he gained in looks he lacked in brains, for he seemed to always go along with others' ideas no matter how stupid.

"It sucked," Craig added. Ever the asshole clad in blue, his snappy comebacks had grown less creative as his drug use upgraded to daily. Kenny's biggest customer, he was still quick witted through the clouds of marijuana smoke lining his brain.

"Not my fault you're pussies," Kenny pulled his orange backpack off and tossed it on the lightly snowed ground between us. On impact it clanked with the sound of glass against glass, one sounding like it broke. Liquid began to ooze through the bottom as Kenny cursed and zipped open the bag, pulling out square bottomed glass bottles, maybe 16 ounces. Amber liquid swirled in each.

Craig, Stan and Butters were the first to pick them up as Kenny continued to empty his bag.

"Moonshine?" Wendy gasped, inspecting Stans bottle over his shoulder. Token and Clyde beamed and grabbed two small bottles for themselves.

"Yep! Home brewed by a good friend of mine," Kenny proudly stated. He grabbed a bottle and walked over to the ticket attendant in the booth, handing it to the pimply thirty year old. The greasy man took it while Kenny fished a wad of green bills from his back pocket and stuffed it in the man's hand.

"Why so little?" Butters asks, referring to the stash of brew. Cartman scoffs at him and grabs three bottles as Kenny bounces back toward the group.

"Because you don't need much at all to get fucked up," Cartman replies matter-of-factly. He brusquely hands Butters one container and unscrews the top of his own, sniffing it. "Jeez Kenny you've really outdone yourself this time." I still can't tell between sarcasm and sincerity with him.

"And just how is this supposed to be fun? Kennyyyyy you promised me a quiet movie," Bebe whines.

The perpetrator puts his arm around her shoulders and squeezes, handing her a bottle. "And it will be," Kenny purrs in her ear.

I feel something hard tap me twice on my arm and glance at Cartman. He's holding out the third bottle toward me. "Drink it slow or you'll regret it," he warns quietly.

"I know how to drink, I'm not a baby," I reply in defense, snatching the bottle from his fingers. He smirks and looks back toward Butters. Cartman was astonished to find the pale blonde already halfway through his.

"Butters you fucking idiot," Cartman laughs, "Don't you remember how to drink?"

Butters' eyes glance sheepishly between us, "Why, yes, but I liked the taste. Reminds me of my Aunt Jessica's kisses."

I can't help but laugh at how fucked up a group we must be. Cartman is laughing too.

Kenny finishes handing a bottle to each of us, there apparently being more in his bag, and excitedly ushers us inside while Wendy loudly orders us like a bizarro field trip guide, "Everyone stay with at least a partner, we don't want the police finding one of us climbing a roller coaster. Drink responsibly and we'll meet up later."

"You're not my mom," Token shoots back before veering toward the closest balloon dart tent with Craig and Clyde, the latter having placed his drink in a brown paper bag while the other two kept them in their pockets.

Wendy puffed her cheeks in annoyance while Stan wove his arm around her waist. Wendy and Token had a bad history since they broke up three years before for her to date Stan again, so the lovebirds avoided Token as much as they could.

I followed Stan and Wendy as they meandered through the aisles of cheap fried food and games. There were children and parents everywhere, running like ants, some from South Park and most from elsewhere.

"Let's go on the ferris wheel, Kenny!" Bebe exclaimed, pressing her ample chest against his side. She'd do better at my job than I would, with that much power of persuasion in her rack.

Kenny beams and waves at us as he and Bebe lose themselves amongst another group of teenagers. I glance behind me and realize Cartman and Butters had left minutes before, leaving myself with Stendy.

I follow them absentmindedly, Stan not seeming to notice they weren't alone as his hands wander toward Wendy's ass.

Wendy would be pretty if she didn't scowl all the time. Naturally a looker, she rarely wore makeup outside of mascara, and her long, straight black hair brushed the small of her back. She rarely wore pants, opting for skirts or dresses with a pink pea coat most days. Her neck practically always adorned with a colorful designer scarf, I suspected it was to hide the enthusiastic hickies Stan would leave.

Wendy pecked Stan on the cheek and glanced back at me peculiarly. She was definitely aware I was still trailing them.

"Kyle," she smiled and waved me forward. They had paused in front of a food stand. Stan turned and saw me, a blush creeping across his cheeks. Yep, he totally forgot I was here.

"Do you like blue or pink flavored cotton candy?" Wendy asked, smiling.

"The idea that a color is a flavor keeps me from eating it," I reply smoothly, trying to return the smile. Wendy has done nothing wrong and I'm not going to be petty.

"Come on dude," Stan starts, pointing at the menu, "there's popcorn, cold lemonade, French fries-"

"All of which sound equally unappealing after they've been sitting out for hours," I shoot back. That sounded harsher than I intended. Wendy is still smiling, but Stan looks a little disturbed.

"Kyle it's not like you're watching your figure," Wendy says jokingly, trying to be clever. "If I get the giant bag of cotton candy, would you help me eat it?"

"I had a big breakfast," I start again, trying to throw suspicion off. "And actually, I think I saw a game I want to try. See you two later."

The very smell of the old popcorn was making me sick. I turn on my heel and dart off as quickly as I can into the cacophony of people and prizes, knowing Stan would have more fun if I wasn't around.

The clouds hung low with the threat of an October storm as I wandered between the temporarily-erected walls of the carnival and the portapotties. I spot Token in the distance sipping from his bottle as Craig and Clyde kept a lookout as children wove between them, unaware.

A nearby game had a sign that read "ID required, 18+ only," awarded cheap plastic masks for prizes. I spotted everything from a Pikachu to Godzilla, Obama to Saddam Hussein, and practically a menagerie of every type of animal.

I approached the booth and saw no one manning it. Hardly anyone in this alley either, I pulled my bottle from my deep jacket pocket and took a long gulp. Then another.

A single snowflake landed on my hand as I pulled the bottle from my lips. Warm acidic swill immediately spread like vines down my throat and rooted in my stomach. It tasted terrible but it was the only thing in my stomach, and a necessary addition to quell the growling.

"Kyle!" I heard Butters voice from behind me and turned to find him and Cartman. "I won a stuffed bear dressed as a rabbit!" The blonde naive child shined through the muscly teenager's teeth as he held up the offending creation, pink and fuzzy.

Cartman wore his brown leather jacket with black worn slacks, slightly short for his long legs. His dark hair again choppy and in disarray, he brushed it down while stating,

"I told him I could rip open its back and put a flask in it so he could drink the blood of his imaginary friends, but he's lame," Cartman stated, obviously more sober than the other teen.

"That's pretty amazing, Butters," I say, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm. Butters hugged the pink atrocity with bright blue mittens but wore varying degrees of grey everywhere else.

The brown haired teen peered over my head at the game with the masks. "Oh dude, suh weet!" He laughed. He walked past me as if I wasn't there and climbed over the table, into the tent.

I took a second look at the game and noticed targets on the other side of the tent, with knives stuck in them. More throwing knives littered the floor of the tent. Butters and I watched as he collected a handful and placed them on the table in front of us.

"I used to have a set of these, before they searched my locker," Cartman explained to no one in particular. He held one in his large hand between his fingers and lifted his arm above his head. "You throw them by not moving your wrist and releasing on the down."

He let go and the knife somersaulted through the air until it landed two inches from the center of the left-most target.

"Woah! That's awesome!" Butters exclaimed, tucking his new friend under his armpit. "Let me try!"

"Sorry Butters, experts only," he teased the drunk boy and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Oh Eric! Lemme try! Please!" he begged, unable to notice Cartman's playful tone.

"Well... Alright but you have to pay me two dollars for each try. I'm the knife keeper now."

"Okay!" Butters pulled a wad of ones from his back pocket and slammed them onto the table.

"Oh boy, let me get out of the way," Cartman climbed back over the table to the customer side of the game and grabbed the pile of bills.

Butters eagerly grabbed the knife and tossed it, missing everything except the floor. The second throw bounced off the back wall and ricocheted toward us. I drank another gulp of moonshine as Cartman smugly counted the ones while Butters became more bewildered and frustrated with each toss.

"Kyle you try," Butters motioned. "This can't be that hard."

"Maybe I'm just that awesome," Cartman muttered as he placed his bounty in his black wallet.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed a banged up knife. Feeling the cold weight in my hand, I finger it to get a grasp on the best method. The handle was smooth. The moonshine began to hit me as I ran my thumb across the edge, the bluntness not scraping my skin. However one quick jab and...

"Come on Jew just throw it," the asshole urges. Before I can move, he grabs it from my open hand and throws it at a target, hitting it square in the center.

"Hey," I begin to protest, sinking back into reality. He holds out another knife, handle first, toward me.

"Don't try anything funny, Jew," he says menacingly, "Butters would be my witness."

"Like I would stab you," I take the knife and glare at him. It wasn't him I was thinking of jabbing.

I fix my attention on the center target and keep my arm straight, like he said. I trust Cartman about as far as I can throw him, but he always had a knack for dangerous illegal things.

"Keep your arm straight," he advised. I lifted my arm keeping my wrist strong. "Breathe," I inhaled as commanded, "And let go."

I release the blade from my fingertips and watched it soar through the dark tent.


	4. These Things

**Chapter 4: These Things**

I laugh, watching Butters puke through Pikachu's mouth as Cartman kills the rest of his drink. I'm only halfway through mine, and feeling the need to catch up. I lift my wolf mask to take a sip of the amber swill. My head is already swimming but I need this to last. If I keep pushing myself, maybe the day really will be good. There's a cold nipping through my layers of clothes but I can ignore it with the warm alcohol rooting in my stomach.

Children are laughing, parents are chattering and Butters' vomit dribbles through Pikachu's smile. Cartman laughs and pulls a tabby cat mask over his face, the elastic keeping it tight. He grabs my bottle from my hand, taking another swig before handing it back.

"Gotta hide the evidence," he says, his eyes twinkling behind the cat's yellow ones. I nod and grin despite myself, moving the wolf face onto my forehead and taking yet another swig.

Butters finally meanders away from between the trash cans, toward us. "Sorry guys, I thought I had it."

"It's whatever," I say. "Pikachu might have some complaints though."

I chuckle and hear Cartman's boisterous laugh too.

We stumble through a family with two young boys while Butters trails, holding his pink bunny friend. Through the eye slits, I catch the youngest' face and recognize the confusion flashing in his eyes. What would I at that age have thought of myself now? I must look like a monster with this mask, but little does he know I'm also a monster without one.

"Look, it's those faggots," Cartman motions toward the ferris wheel. I scan the carts and see Wendy giggling as Stan moves his hand up her pea coat. Cartman nods toward the bottom of the ride and I see Craig and Token trying to stand nonchalantly in front of a row of blue porta potties. The old fashioned repetitive mechanical music gets louder as we approach.

"Hey assholes!" Cartman bounds toward them, "I have gifts for all!"

"What's up?" Token says. A good head taller than all of us, he was always looking down to meet our gaze. It would be intimidating if it wasn't for his good nature.

"Butters puked his guts out for ten minutes so we had to hightail it out of there," Cartman continues, reaching into his leather jacket's deep pocket.

"This is for youuuu," he hands Craig a Marilyn Monroe plastic mask and Craig responds with a grin, "and this for you, Token." He holds out a mask of President Obama.

Token grins and puts his hands up defensively, "Come on man, really?"

"He's the most powerful man in the world, token, get over it!" Despite feigning innocence, Cartman's cruel humor is reflected in his smirking face. The brunette attempts to place it over the taller boy's head.

Token laughs and doesn't put up a fight. Once his face was replaced with the president's, he throws his arms outward in a V with peace signs.

"Mr. President, what do you have in store for the world?" Cartman asks jokingly, holding an invisible microphone to the mask's mouth.

"Big booty bitches for all," Token shakes his head back and forth as we all laugh.

"What's going on?" A combination stench of human excrement and disinfectant wafts over us and the blue door opens behind Craig as Clyde steps out.

"Hey Addict," Cartman says, handing him a frog mask, "put this on."

Clyde pouts and absentmindedly fingers something in his pocket. "Why am I the frog?"

"I don't know, why is Kahl a wolf? Just put it on," he shoves it into the smaller boy's hands and turns his attention toward the ferris wheel. "Who thinks they can climb it the highest before security shows up?"

Craig uses that opportunity to jump onto the fence, getting a good grip with his tennis shoes, "Me, fat ass!"

In no time, all of us except myself and Butters were scrambling onto the green fence in a blur of arms and legs. I hear cheering and see Kenny standing further down the row of tents, locking one arm with Bebe and throwing the other into the air as a gesture of support.

Craig made it to the top of the fence first and swiveled to the other side, confidently jumping off and grabbing onto the ferris wheel. Suddenly the ride stops and he's left dangling from the white metal beam. Cartman follows suit, but instead manages to land his on a swinging empty cart.

"What the hell are you guys doing?!" I hear Stan's voice from the other side of the ride.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Butters meekly says, his forehead wrinkling with worry.

I laugh and yell, "Go Craig! Kick his ass!"

"Traitor Jew!" Cartman retorts, flipping the birdie in my general direction.

"You stupid kids, get off the ride!" The ferris wheel operator yells from the ground. Suddenly, two policemen in full uniform walk up to the fence and brusquely pull down Token and Clyde. Cartman sees this and skillfully dangles from the swinging cart, letting go and dropping six feet to the ground.

"Hah! I win!" Craig yells, oblivious to the police.

The police roughly handle Token and say, "You kids are in big trouble." The bigger officer holds Clyde by his shirt cuff as he struggles, panic setting in. I attempt to back away with Butters, but he was already halfway through the carnival heading toward the exit. The bigger officer grabs me by my wrist as the other pushes Token to the ground.

"Police brutality!" Token screams into the dirt, his Obama mask set askew.

"Police brutality!" Stan echoes as the ride creaks into motion again. I struggle to regain control of my arm but I can feel the officer's wedding band digging into my bone. The ferris wheel's mechanical tune doesn't drown out the start of the chant as Wendy and other carnival-goers begin to notice the violent scene playing out in front of them.

"Hey! Get your hands off him, asshole!" Cartman bounds up and tackles the officer holding Clyde and I. The policeman loses his grip and we're both free. I turn my attention to the one pinning Token to the ground and throw my small weight into his side, to no avail.

The officer keeps his footing and reaches into his pocket. I see the top of a small spray can as an orange blur runs into him, throwing them both headfirst into the snowy dirt.

"Run!" Kenny yells.

I'm ushered with a shove and use the momentum to break into a sprint, weaving through the tents and pushing people out of my way until I break through the entrance. Panting through the plastic mask, I keep running, leaving deep imprints in the foot of snow. I run out of the Home Depot parking lot, narrowing missing every car, through an alley between other stores in the strip mall, and into a small cove of trees. I hear hollers of my group and the crashing of branches from behind, so I know I'm not the only one to escape.

Finally the forest wall breaks and I run into a clearing, to the top of the hill. Token hoots and tumbles into the snow, followed by Kenny hand and hand with Bebe, smiling. Slowing, I turn, hearing sirens in the distance but not approaching. The freezing air finally hits me and catches in my chest as I struggle for a breath.

I pull off the wolf mask and throw it into the air, laughing as madness overtakes my senses. Token follows suit and throws his bent Obama mask back toward the trees. Craig and Clyde reappear from the thicket of branches and I fall backward into the soft blanket of white. Loose flakes bounce into the air and shower me, falling on my face, and my chest rises and falls with exhausted breaths. Cold wet seeps through my red locks to my scalp. Everyone is panting and laughing.

"Did everyone make it?" Bebe asks, glancing around, her long blonde curls in disarray. The laughter dies down as we try to make sense of our numbers.

As if on cue, Pikachu and a maskless Cartman walk up the hill.

"Where'd that blood come from?" Kenny asks. I sit up and inspect Cartman.

The brunette shrugs and explains, "He tried to cuff me," as if that would explain both of his hand's bloody knuckles and the red line trailing from his scalp down his eyebrow and cheek.

"Thanks for that guys," Token said. "This town is fucked up."

I lean back into hill. It's begun to snow as I stare at the endless grey. "Yeah it is," I murmur.

"There you are," I hear Wendy's voice.

"Dudes that was sick!" Stan says, punching Kenny in the arm.

The blonde sheepishly grins, "It's nothing. This usually happens to Cartman and I."

I reach into my pocket and take another gulp of moonshine. Almost empty.

"So what do we do now?" I ask.

"My mom isn't home. Let's continue at my house. I have snacks and shit," Cartman walks over and takes my bottle, downing the last of it in one large gulp.

"Asshole!" I say, my annoyance building. I stand and meet his playful gaze with my frustrated one. "You already finished yours, quit stealing."

"You'd be in police custody right now if it wasn't for me. Some gratitude would be appreciated." He lowers his tone and leans in, narrowing his eyes. "Besides, _Starr_ can't hold her liquor. I'm only looking out for your best interest, since you're such a delicate flower and all."

"I hate you," I say, his evil smile spreading.

/\/\/\

"How can the people who are supposed to protect us treat other people like that?" Wendy slurs incredulously from the couch, lounging across Stan. Her green button down loosened and her hair draped in a mess across her face, she's obviously had a bit to drink.

"People will disappoint," Kenny says knowingly. Bebe twirls his matted dirty blonde hair while he empties his backpack of its contents.

I remove my black boots and throw my jacket onto them.

Craig and Token raid the fridge in the next room. "Hey Cartman!" Craig calls, "Can we eat this chicken?"

"Go for it," Cartman replies. He leans against the kitchen doorway, his brown leather jacket forgotten on the dining room table, in a short sleeve black v neck. The blood had smeared and dried on his face, but he had washed it off his hands.

Apparently Kenny's backpack had contained an ounce of marijuana, a Gandalf pipe, and two forties of moonshine. Cartman walks up and grabs one, taking it into the kitchen. I follow, leaving the couples to continue their foreplay.

Token and Craig leave the room, arms full of various large bags of chips and salsa, while Clyde disappears into the guest bathroom, leaving me alone with Cartman.

After pushing various garbage off the table, he set to work sloshing the gold liquid into two red plastic cups, about halfway up. He takes one and quickly empties half of it into his stomach. He sighs in satisfaction and looks at me. "You gonna drink or what?"

I take the cup, sipping it slowly, keeping my eyes on Cartman. He was swaying slightly. Only two feet away, I was able to get a good look at the deep gash in his scalp.

"You should see the other guy," he says, smirking and taking another sip. He pauses again and asks in a more serious tone, "So uhhh... When are you working again?"

"Why?"

"I enjoy your company, _Starr_ ," he says sarcastically.

"I'd rather you didn't," I admit, feeling brave with the moonshine pumping through my body, warming me from the inside.

"Well either you let me visit you, or you make no money, and I let everyone know you're a tranny."

To my chagrin, he was right. He had done nothing at the club to warrant being kicked out or banned, and I hadn't seen him there since the first time. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But that could be the gold optimism I'd been drinking all day.

I take another sip, delicately wording my reply. "Tonight. My shift starts at 8. For your information, people like me, so I'd make money regardless. I don't need you," I was so tired from the day's events, but I needed the money.

"Ignore the facts all you want Kahl, but you are not going to find a customer that enjoys your company as much as I do," he replies, very sure of himself.

"You enjoy torturing me," I reply coolly. "It's not the same."

"Ri-ight and the creeps buying dances and staring at your dick and asshole, they have _such_ pure incentives for being there," his tone became icy. "You're barely a step up from a prostitute, and at least with me, you know I'm not going to try to get more than I paid for."

"You could never pay me enough to make up for the years of damage and fucked up memories you've given me," I reply, just as icy.

"What I gave us, was a memorable life," he retorts, letting it sit in the air. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was offended.

We stood like that a moment, until the urge to pee took over.

"Thanks for the drink," I murmur. I walk back through the living room.

"Kyle, here," Kenny says, beckoning me over. Craig and Token worked to hook Cartman's game station up. Stan and Wendy giggled in each other. Kenny reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small baggie with a little white pill in it.

"What is it?" I ask.

"It's E. Happy birthday," he smiles at me.

"My birthday is in two weeks," I state.

"Yeah but I'd probably forget. This way you get it no matter what."

I smile back, "Thanks, dude." I stuff the pill into my jean pocket and leave them.

I walk up the stairway and into the dark hallway of the second floor, to find a bathroom. Clyde had claimed the downstairs one for his personal use.

There's a layer of filth resting on every framed photo, painting, and even the carpet. Dust particles dance in the waning light from the living room. Photos of Cartman's small family (consisting of his mom and his person) peer down at me as I reach for the closest door knob, unable to remember the location.

I deduct by the stench of mint cologne and piles of his clothes, it's Cartman's room. I flick the light switch and it occurs to me it had been eight years since I was in there last.

His carpet probably existed somewhere under the several piles of debris. Papers are literally everywhere, books propped open with highlighted passages. I see loose bullets spilling from their box in a corner, a very used target, and a plastic bin labeled "shurikens" with some Japanese scrawl, lying atop what was once a desk. Even the ceiling is covered in sticky notes, narrating things like "alone?" And "sewer escape," with an arrow.

Next to his window are maps of South Park, Colorado, the US. My house is appropriately labeled "Jew", with green lines pointing at the windows, labeled "point of entry." I glance over the map of the US which is even more illegible despite its massive size. He has drawn the locations of government buildings, the Pentagon and various military testing sites. I look at the closest pile of books. "Guns, Germs and Steel," and "the Art of War," being a few of the highlights. His copy of Plato's Symposium has obviously been read a lot. I leaf through it and find at least one circled passage on every page with handwritten questions.

I place the book back upon the precarious pile and run my hand across his closet handle with curiosity. I grab it with both hands and pull, but it doesn't budge. It's then I notice the security camera perched above the door, whirring while following my every move. I decide to leave before Cartman is alerted to my snooping.

I eventually find the bathroom and contemplate the state of the house while I wash my hands. Cartman's dirty laundry is everywhere, while none of his mom's. Curiosity eats at me.

I vaguely remember where her room is and venture toward the end of the hall. With the bare moonlight allowing me to make out the handle, I push open the door.

Must and mildew fill my nose as I squint my eyes, making out shapes in the darkness. The bed was flipped over and the frame was splinted and broken in numerous places. The headboard was thrown across the room, denting the far wall and breaking the glass of a painting frame, the actual painting ruined forever. In the corner, I see Cartman's old cat Mr Kitty sleeping soundly with his legs outstretched on his black backpack, with his school folders and books scattered near the window. A pack of cigarettes sits on the windowsill with a lighter.

Where was Miss Cartman?

I hear banging from downstairs as someone turns on the TV. A chant of "Call of Duty" floats down the hall and I decide rejoin my companions. As I walk down the hallway, I pass by an open window and hear moaning from the backyard. I can't make anything out from the window so I quietly creep down the stairs and past the living room. I glance Stan and Wendy hand and hand walking toward the guest bedroom while Kenny, Clyde and Token hook up the Xbox. Once in the kitchen, I push open the back door.

A cold wind hugs my frame as I quietly close the screen door behind me. My legs are numb in the cold, and I feel as if I'm floating, my path already decided. The night sky blankets the scene with darkness and small stars, the moon hidden behind grey stubborn clouds.

I quietly step barefoot into the snow, my socks soaked through. Deep footsteps litter the snow and create a path to a hunched Cartman, groaning and yakking off the side of the porch, his choice of drinking too much staining the white with orange and red. He utters pained noises and curses, "Shit."

I hug my frame to keep the cold from settling in my bones. I say nothing and just watch. Another wave of nausea hits Cartman and he pitifully, again, empties the contents of his stomach.

He kept stealing my drinks and threatening me. It should feel good to watch him feel horrible, but it doesn't.

Again, I'm filled with nothing. Nothing echoing with the sound of him retching into the snow.


	5. Challengers

**Chapter Five: Challengers**

Saturday night throbs with the freedom to make stupid decisions, because the next day, God will forgive you. However when you work Saturday nights, it's just another work day, full of tedium and people you'd rather not deal with. I finish my set and walk off the stage, my legs feeling too heavy for my body. No customers tonight. Porsche had a theory that the shittier weather scared off potential clients.

The day had been eventful and I was feeling the trailing false confidence of the moonshine, daring to spin more and climb higher. Grace be damned, I could at least do tricks. The girls would tip me, because of stripper etiquette. I'd learned slowly that whatever I tipped would come back to me threefold, kindness to my coworkers and all. It always worked out. But nights like this, we all equally felt the cold reality of empty purses.

The club stank of spilled beer and cheap perfume. Glitter dusted my bare chest as I redid the buttons on my purple top. Fishnet undershirt, slutty shorts, and combat boots, I have become the very picture of desperate faggot. No wonder Cartman ragged on me constantly.

I watched Acura with mild amusement as she crawled on the stage floor, her ivory skin glistening with beads of sweat, and small manicured hands pulling a particularly lucky customer (the only one in the room) by his tie. Her tits do nothing for me, it's just a body. We're all just stupid mewling animals attempting to make our life worth the effort, man or woman, or in between. I could never feel comfortable touching a customer like that, but another man... Who knows.

I'd kissed girls before, a few times before puberty and a few because of it. Porsche made me grab her tits last week to reassure her they were lovely, and that was sadly the most I'd felt of another human, but they might as well have been potatoes for the obsession was lost on me. Maybe I really feel nothing anymore, or maybe seeing the uncomfortable faces of the dancers as the customers desperately tugged at them turned me off both sexes forever.

"Fancy seeing you here," I say. I caught Cartman in the corner of my eye attempting to sit next to me at the bar. I use the straw to twirl the ice cubes in my vodka cranberry, and take another sip. "Thought you'd have enough of me today."

He sits on the stool and ignores my comment, instead nodding at my drink. "Still at it? You're less of a pussy than I thought," he remarks.

I remain silent and finish my long sip because it's something to do with my mouth other than talking. I don't know what to say, and he's staring at me again.

"What?" I ask sharply. I know I look ridiculous, I don't need him staring at me constantly as a reminder. "I'm surprised you even made it here with you puking your guts out."

"Not all of us quit when the going gets tough. That's what a pussy is," he replies matter-of-factly, not questioning when I saw him. Shortly after watching him, I crept back inside and out on my shoes, darting out before he found some reason to blame me for his circumstance.

He removes his brown jacket and sticks it on a hook under the bar, the clean smell of peppermint wafting toward me from under his black shirt. In the blue light, I can see a five o'clock shadow growing along the edge of his strong jaw. He reached for his back pocket with a large hand.

"Did you leave them all at your house?" I ask. "Won't your mom be back or something?"

Cartman opens his black wallet and replies without looking at me. "No, she won't be back."

His brunette choppy hair stuck to his forehead with sweat while his eyes shifted into a distant gaze. His tone tells me what I already suspected: she's gone. Not for a night, not for a week. I regret bringing it up, but I can at least feign ignorance. He doesn't seem to know I was snooping around his house yet.

Miss Cartman did what I've been dreaming about. What pushed her to that point? How did she find it in her to leave her son? Maybe I was reading into it too much and it was a business trip, but, there were no sheets, no clothes, no jewelry. Just the stink of cigarette smoke, an old cat, and a surly teenage son.

Cartman waves his hand at the bartender and says, "Whatever's on tap." Volks nods her blonde head in reply. Oblivious to my quiet questions, he continues, "Yeah I left those assholes drinking in my living room. Stan and Wendy seemed to find something better to do. Then everyone started talking about Butters' game, or lack thereof, I doubt they'd noticed we'd left," Volks places the glass of frothing yellow on a napkin in front of him and Cartman makes to hand her a card, "Close out. And put Starr's on mine too."

"You don't have to do that," I reply.

"You're still not selling dances right?" Volks takes the card and walks over to the POS machine. "No rooms either? I'm surprised you can afford whatever stanky perfume you're using, let alone a mixed drink."

I blush, ashamed at the truth, and tuck a red curl behind my ear. "I'm aware of my circumstance. Thanks."

"Well good. Then you could be a bit more grateful to your only repeat customer," he smirks and sips his beer, his face reflected violet in the glass.

The monotonous dubstep Acura liked to play ends and the DJ announces Cadillac is next. Cartman glances in my direction again.

"Uh oh," he says, placing the beer down on the black bartop.

"What? What did I do now?" I ask tiredly.

"Go to the back," he stands from the tiffany blue stool and moves to the other side of me, pushing his back against me in an almost protective gesture. The familiar peppermint aftershave overtakes my senses and I can't help but feel warm through the fishnet, where his back is touching me with barely one layer of cotton covering it.

I snap out of the temporary delirium and look over his shoulder at whatever caught his attention. I immediately bolt for the dressing room, back stepping only to retrieve my drink. I walk as fast as I can without garnering attention and dart to the hallway next to the DJ booth, then I sprint.

Walking toward the stage of the empty strip club and sitting in the front row, were none other than Kenny, Token, a timid Butters and Craig.

"- and Mr Yamamoto is renting out the extra dressing room for private clients now," Mercedes continues as if she didn't notice my entrance. Her hair falls in rivers of blonde as she cleans up her area of the room, placing her makeup and normal clothes into a pink duffle bag. "It's where he installed the Catherine wheel. There's a camera too, but the whole thing is completely illegal. He's making us all sign non disclosure agreements next week."

Porsche is languidly reapplying purple lipstick when she looks at me through the mirror. "What is it, sweetie?"

My eyes dart from the floor to the ceiling, looking for an escape, a crack to crawl through. I could run out the back exit but it would set off the fire alarm, and I would surely be fired.

I walk over to the well lit mirror and take a good look at myself. Long auburn curls hit the middle of my back, and my green eyes are hidden behind generous strokes of black and mascara. An androgynous creature haunting dark clubs until I lose the shirt. Still recognizable to anyone who has seen me naked in a locker room, like Kenny or Butters. At least Stan wasn't here, that would be a whole different elephant in the room. I don't feel like explaining to the guy I've shared a bed with and have known since diapers that I'm not gay, just desperate, and despite the short shorts and make up I was very much _okay._

I bury my face in my hands and let out a long frustrated sigh in a desperate attempt to make my current problems vanish. I mess with my red locks a bit and check my teeth.

"You look fine, honey, I get that you're nervous," Porsche says.

Mercedes scoffs, "if you're gonna work in this industry darling, you need a thicker skin."

"It's not that," I explain, picking at nonexistent specks on my shorts. I should start wearing more jewelry, a leather choker makes me look like a twink. "It's these customers..."

"Oh! You mean Eric? I think he has a crush on you," Porsche starts excitedly, spinning in her black stool to look at me. "He came a few days ago on your day off and asked if you were working. When he realized you weren't, he went home. It's so cute though, a common occurrence here. I've had lots of guys get obsessed."

I can't even fathom a reply for that insane deduction. I just smile and tiredly state, "Of course _you_ would, Porsche, you're beautiful."

"Oh sweetie!" She stands and grasps me in a tight hug, her barely covered tits pressing into my flat chest. "And that's why you're my favorite!"

All I can do is chuckle and accept the embrace. The hug did calm me down a little bit, but not enough to forget the coming storm.

I bid Mercedes and Porsche good luck and stick my head out of the dressing room timidly. In my absence, Cartman had apparently joined our friends, being pat on the back by Token as he tipped Cadillac. Relief washes over me as I realize they didn't see me, but is quickly replaced by a complicating nausea. I cover my mouth. The relief was the last straw, I'm going to hurl.

/\/\/\

Regrets of liquor consumption dance in my consciousness and I realize I'm a little more tipsy than I should be. A day of not eating and only drinking does that. Perfect. I should have been smarter, but I couldn't stop the waves of vomiting with "should haves."

I glance around the clean peach colored bathroom and realize I had mistakenly entered the girl's room. Or subconsciously I'm as confused as I look and Freud would have a field day. I stand, swaying slightly, and attempt to deftly flush the toilet with my boot. I wash my hands, check my teeth again, and try to smile. It looks fake. I look fake.

I enter the main room again and Cartman is glancing around the room. Once he spots me, he smiles and says something to Kenny. I automatically duck behind the wall again. Then I remember his words.

" _I like my victims helpless and leaning on me, I like watching the struggle, telling everyone would be counter intuitive."_

"Hey Jew, you forgot your purse," two of Cartman reappear in front of me, peering curiously into my face. When did he get back here? He hands me the black clutch and I take it timidly. He leans his back against the opposite wall of the hallway, him practically a silhouette against the glitter.

"You're drunk," he remarks gruffly.

"Yep." I nod, then return to silence, trying to wish my pounding headache away. The bright concentration of light makes his faces blur into a blank, unreadable shadow. I'm swaying again, punctuating the silence with standing up straight every three seconds.

"How desperate are you... to keep this job?" He asks carefully. I probably look like a wreck. A weak pitiful thing about to collapse under its own mess of bad choices.

"Very," I admit, looking at my feet. My boots are scuffed. I really need to buy better footwear.

"Then say the magic word," he orders seriously.

"What?" I ask in disbelief, and shake my head, my red curls forming a curtain. There's no fixing this. It's over or it's miserable.

Cartman scoffs at my stupidity, "I can make this all go away. Say the magic word."

Stupid Cartman. Don't you realize it's hopeless?

"Trust me," he says. I look up at him and see only one of him, to my relief. I could laugh. Trust him? Never. But right now, I am out of options.

"... _Please,_ " I finally ask him through gritted teeth.

He doesn't respond for a moment and I repeat myself, "Please..."

"It's that important to you you're actually willing to trust me? Me? Have you lost your fucking mind?" He asks quietly, his voice incredulous. "You're willing to do anything for it. Why?"

I take a deep breath and try to look him right in his hazel glowing eyes. He doesn't deserve honesty, but I need help. Still a stoic shadow, he does not move as he returns my gaze, searching my silent face for answers.

Maybe it is the alcohol or the sheer exhaustion, but I open up, and suddenly it all pours out of me. Like the breaking of a dam, there's no controlling it anymore.

"I... can't do it anymore, Cartman. There's nothing for me here. This place... It eats lives. People get stuck and never even want to leave. They think it's the same everywhere but it's not. Other places have a life, a beating culture, love... Here the snow covers it all up, leaving nothing. Absolutely nothing. The people are miserable and they can't even see it, tricked into believing their own lies. I can't live like that anymore."

And then it's gone, my pathetic admittance hanging in the air like an unwanted gift. He sighs, " _Fine_."

The shadow leaves me standing in the hall and walks back toward the bar, over to the blonde bouncer. Cartman gestures at me, pulling a card out of his wallet, resulting in the bouncer nodding and calling me over. I worriedly look toward the stage, but our daylight friends are too busy staring at the mystery of the naked female to turn around. I quickly walk over to Cartman and the suited blonde older teen.

"Hey, I'm Thomas." He looks vaguely familiar. "This is the first room you've sold right?"

"Yes it is," Cartman replies for me. I still don't understand what's going on and cautiously look over my shoulder, paranoid of being seen.

Thomas continues, "Alright well he bought an hour, so I'll come back there once time is up. If you're ever uncomfortable just stick your head out of the booth and I'll come back."

I nod nervously and Cartman thanks the bouncer. He grabs my wrist and yanks me toward the DJ booth, away from the main room.

I'm halfway out when I hear Kenny teasingly call, "I always knew you liked red heads! Tell us if she's worth it!" The blaring music of the large speakers drown out whatever else they yell at their receding view of our backs. The brunette loosens his grip on my wrist as we exit the room to the right of the DJ booth.

To the right, a blue hallway leads to the various champagne rooms, each closed off for privacy, each with a different color scheme and design and price tag. Cartman winds us through the different enclosures until we reach the one furthest away from the entrance. The walls are pinstriped white and black, with black leather booth seats lining the entire room, and a spinning pole. He finally releases my arm and climbs into the booth, leaving me to follow. We sit apart from each other, the leather squishing under our weight, and Volks brings an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, and two glasses, placing it on the glass top round table in front of us, and shutting the black door behind her as she leaves.

The music from the main stage drifts through the walls, muted slightly but the bass still present. I recognize the hollering of Kyle's friends as Eric uncorks the bottle and pours himself and Starr drinks.

He places the bottle on the glass top table with a _thunk_ and raises his glass, "Cheers," he says to no one. He leans back into the leather cushion and takes a large gulp of his drink. "I probably should drink it slow, to enjoy it, but fuck it."

I process our surroundings, convinced I'm mistaken, and attempt to reach for the correct words. "Did you just buy a champagne room?"

Cartman looks around the room comically, his eyes wide, gesturing wildly with his arms, "Why, this _is_ a champagne room! For a moment there I thought we walked into a teleportation device and landed in Disney World!"

"Why?" I ask, unable to hide the confusion or surprise in my tone.

He sighs and hands me the other long stemmed glass of bubbly gold with his free hand, "Only way to get us both out of the room without arousing suspicion... a thank you will suffice."

"Where'd you get the money?" I ask. The room could have cost anywhere between six hundred and ten thousand dollars, that's how much had to be spent to get the privacy, the girl and the bottle.

"Why do you care?" he replies defensively. He seems to regret that answer and adds, "I have some. It came to me easily so I use it for nothing important."

Probably the same way his house came to him easily, left to him in the stead of a parent.

"Thank you."

Eric Cartman looks just as surprised at my response as I am with him. He must not have expected I would so readily express gratitude, so I repeat it. "Really, thank you."

"Well," he looks away, suddenly very interested in the pinstriped walls, "I'm glad to see you've learned your place. That'll make my visits to this humble establishment much more pleasant."

The taller teen's sweaty black clothes cling to his body, and his dark hair falls over his forehead, mussed from lack of caring. In this light, he could be handsome. An effortless wonder, still intimidating in his relaxed state, his aura dangerous. The type of person you could never read, and find difficulty feeling comfortable around.

He sips his drink again and I follow suit. I'm already drunk, feeling dizzy and warm, but this champagne was expensive, upward six hundred. Turning the cost over in my head, I still can't figure out why he bothered. With any of this.

"Why do you come here? Really?" My curiosity pushes me forward. "It can't be for just me, but you don't watch the girls. I know you've gone to great lengths in the past to torture me but, this seems a bit much."

He takes a moment to craft an answer, still studying the far corner of the room. "It's normal, isn't it?" Cartman admits softly, his volume barely above a whisper. "For teenage boys to be curious, so they get a fake ID to sneak in. Healthy curiosity, eventually becoming a hobby, many men do it," he ponders his glass and swirls it slightly.

"To look normal? That's why you do it? You drop hundreds of dollars randomly on a room and that's your excuse? To appear normal? What's the point?"

"There's nothing more important than appearing normal, Kahl," he states very seriously, finally facing me. His hand tightens its grip on the glass and the champagne vibrates, threatening to spill. "Once people realize what you are deep down, they'll hurt you. They'll use you, they'll exploit your weaknesses. Normal people don't mess with whomsoever they perceive as normal, too. Group mentality. They want the freaks. They want to hunt them down and make them suffer for being different," he puts the glass down. "I understand what it's like to have a front, Kahl. And I will do anything to keep it."

I mull over his answer, unable to understand. "You're the biggest asshole I know. A bigot, an uncaring selfish prick, and somehow that's you attempting to appear normal?"

"Lots of people are assholes. Changing that dramatically would arouse suspicion, Kahl. And I can be civil when I want to, I just don't feel the need with you or our... acquaintances."

I doubt that. "How long have you been this obsessed with how other people perceive you? Since when?"

There's a distant look on his face, like he's far away, talking to someone else, "Since I realized there's nothing worse than humans."

And just like that, I realize I do not know this man at all. I thought I knew the boy, I'm sure I did, years ago... But somewhere between then and now, we both lost the children we once were.

"Now..." he clears his throat, "Dance for me."

All I can do is blink. Surely I misheard him, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," He crosses his legs on the glass top table and snow drips off his dirty tennis shoes. He smiles at me and gestures to the pole in the middle of the room with his champagne glass. "I paid a lot of money for this... _privacy_. I'm going to take full advantage of it. Dance."

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am, deadly so. Now if you would so kindly... show me the goods."

I sit as still as a statue, hoping silently that if I don't move I'll camouflage into the leather seat. But sadly, I am just a nancy boy, so I walk to the center of the room, defeated. I stand there, the lights bathing my body, changing me from green to blue and back again.

He smirks at me and I glower back. I open my mouth to protest again and he wags a single finger at me, "Ah ah ah Kahl, no talking. I didn't pay for your whining, I get enough of that at school."

I angrily grab my phone from my black clutch and begrudgingly walk to the speaker jack dangling next to the door from a tiny black box. I take a moment to scroll through my options and land on German industrial, perfectly angry and loud. The black ceiling has speakers hidden in every other panel, so the loud drums sound like they're raining down on us from the heavens.

I place my right hand on the pole, and after catching the pure satisfaction plastered across his catlike face, decide it would be easier to start if I had my back to him.

I take a few steps around the pole and jump into it when the vocals start, the screaming perfectly encapsulating my complicated state of mind. This pole spins and I'm not used to it, going much faster than I anticipated.

I'm off slightly. I try to push Cartman out of my head and climb as high as I can, eight feet up, almost touching the ceiling. I let go with my legs and let them hang in a V, pushing torso off the pole with my arms. My whole body is burning, my head is spinning, but this is the only time anxiety doesn't gnaw away with fear of failure. I'm in full control and perfect in weightless ecstasy.

Sometimes I catch a blur of Cartman's face, sipping his drink and watching me, but he is not smiling.

Ten minutes and three songs later, I feel my grip weakening. I am dangling, my red curls pointing to the ground while my legs are securely locked around the pole. I'm five feet up with my button down shirt already gone, my pink nipples sticking out of the black fishnet defiantly.

The temporary relief my mind might have felt in the pure thrill of flying is gone, and my body is rejecting its terrible owner. The lack of sleeping coupled with the lack of eating was stupid, but then again, I'm stupid.

I'm overheating, my heart pumping too fast, too hard. I make to grab the metal and miss, and suddenly, I'm falling, crashing, panicking, and the room goes black.

/\/\/\

I float in and out, my head hurting and my consciousness stuffed full of cotton. I can't see anything from this far away, and attempt to murmur that at whatever warm thing is holding me.

/\/\/\

It's cold. Soft ice leaves trails of small kisses on my exposed hands and neck. It smells like peppermint.


	6. Ceremony

**Chapter Six: Ceremony**

He had been dead for a week. The sweet stench of decay had only been delayed by the three feet of snow and perpetual below freezing temperatures. We had never seen anything like it. What was left of his face was a garden of burst cuts and black bruises, maggots wriggling and nesting deep inside. His cheek's skin had been ripped into a jagged permanent smile, the bottom half of his jaw being dislocated kicked through it. His teeth were all broken nubs of their past glory. Even at that age, we realized what we were staring at.

"Now boys, we know you've had a long day with the police, but we need to talk to you about something," Mrs Marsh said calmly.

It was seven years ago, so there were less photos on the walls of the Marsh's living room. Every cushion of the couch and lazy boy were occupied, so they had brought the dining room chairs to make for more seating. The room was populated with each of our immediate family members, Mr and Mrs Marsh with Stan, my mom and dad, Miss Cartman and Eric, Kenny and his parents, and Butters and the Stotch's. Stan's and my parents were attempting to remain calm, keeping their volume in check, but I could feel the rage emanating from Stan's father, Randy, and Butters' parents.

Mr Marsh began, "You see, son," putting his hand on Stan's small knee. "We're just trying to understand... why you didn't report it sooner."

Stan guiltily looked down and shuffled his dangling feet, "We didn't mean to... _Not_ report it. We just wanted to see what would happen."

We had been playing an attempt at football in the park, tripping over the snow and not understanding how to make a play. Kenny told me to go long and Cartman tackled me into bushes. The ball went flying out of my hands and next to the bloodied man we would later learn was Mr Slave, our fourth grade teachers ex lover.

"Watch what?" Stan's mom ushered, putting her hand on his back.

He didn't reply. In all honesty we didn't have an answer outside of 'we wanted to watch.'

It had been a boring week. Snow kept us inside unusually, barring the exits and canceling school due to the sheer amount of ice on the roads. When we were finally able to leave our houses, there wasn't much to do. We'd already counted all the frogs at the pond, defeated each other in hand to hand combat (Cartman won in the last round by sitting on Stan), and rewatched the same TV shows. We were bored, old enough to want more but too young to understand what, the plague of being a pre-preteen of overstimulated hypsexualized America in the early millennium.

His arms and legs had been bound behind him, but when I fell into that bush, he had been facing me, his eyes hollowed by death and cruel joke of a smile welcoming me.

Butters had puked and cried once he and the other two heard our screams and run up. Stan threw up too, as I recall. I scuttled back, shocked and disgusted. Cartman was intrigued by the body, daring to get closer to it than the rest of us, but still knowing not to touch it.

"It looks like he was beaten to death," he said matter-of-factly.

"Thanks Captain Obvious," Kenny muttered, his mouth blocked by his puffy orange hood.

"How can you be so cool about this? He's dead, Cartman," Stan exclaimed, his eyes threatening to burst out of his tiny head in stress.

"It's not like he's suffering now," Cartman replied. "Obviously he was, but who knows how long he's been here." He sighed and circled the body, inspecting it from every angle, his eyes taking in every gorey detail and etching it into his memory. "Well... we should probably tell someone."

"Or not. Maybe if we ignore it, he'll go away," Butters timidly suggested, wringing his hands anxiously.

"And what, Butters? What will take him away? The local fauna might eat him if he starts to stink more. Or maybe whoever did this will return and take the body to his basement and keep it as a trophy, a constant reminder of the night he beat the guy to death," Cartman sounded exasperated.

"Jesus, Cartman," I said, "You're really fucked up."

" _I'm_ fucked up? I'm not the one who did this!" He points wildly at the dead leather-clad man in the red frozen bath.

We decided to pretend we hadn't seen it. None of us told anyone and we returned the next day, only to realize no one else had been back there. Leading up to the body, there were only our five sets of tiny footprints from the day before.

Then, it became a ritual. Yes, it stank, but once you hung around it long enough, even the shock of all the blood faded away, and we could have easily been staring at a grown man sleeping in a mattress-sized cherry snow cone.

Every day we would go back to the field and watch, and wait, for something to happen. Mr Slave was like a museum for our curiosity, an answer to unasked questions, unmoving and unchanging. On the seventh day, we returned to find the area had been closed off as a crime scene, and the police stopped us from leaving, assuming correctly it was our footprints in the snow.

"We know what you saw might have scared you, and that's why you didn't say anything, but we decided to have this talk to explain a few things," Mrs Marsh continues.

"Am I gonna die? Like that man?" Butters asks, his eyes welling with tears. The Stoch's were not an expressive family so his mom and dad did not take the opportunity to hug him.

Instead, Mr Stotch cleared his throat and stated, "No, Butters, you're safe. The man was obviously killed because he chose to spend his time surrounded by men."

"But all our friends are guys," Stan starts, fear in his voice. "Except Wendy."

"It's not the same thing..." Mrs Stotch starts, looking at the other parents for help.

Mr Marsh took up the challenge, "You see, boys, if you're confused, let us explain. The man you found was gay, a 'homosexual' if you will," Stan's dad puts air quotes around the word, "do you understand what that means?"

"It means he loved men," Butters chimes in before a look from his father silences him and the blonde kid shrinks back into the couch.

"So, he was killed for loving someone?" I remember asking.

"No, it means he liked having sex with men, and loved maybe a few," Mrs Marsh clarifies.

"He could've loved women if he tried, and maybe he loved some of them too and had sex with them," Kenny's father states, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"He was killed for choosing to have... Sexual relations with a man," my dad says, "You boys are too young to understand this but, we figure it's time we explain a few things.

"You see, when a man and woman love each other... _Very much_ ," my mom peers into the eyes of my dad and smiles, "They can choose to have children through an act called 'sex.' You're all born out of love."

"Now Sheila," Miss Cartman interjects, "You and I both know that's not true. I mean, of course we love our sons," she puts her manicured hand on Cartman's head and musses his hair, "but you don't need to love someone to have sex with them."

"You don't?" Cartman replies, looking up into his mother's face.

"No, for some people, sex is just fun. Or you can have a friend that you have sex with, but don't love, just to let off some steam now and again. Not all sex results in a child," she smiles at her son.

Kenny snickers and mutters approval behind his orange hood before his mom smacks him upside the head.

"That's all well and good for you, but Stan is eight! They're too young to understand that," Randy says, annoyance building in his tone. He looks at Stan, "You can only have sex with someone once you truly love them, and are married."

"But then how did Mr Slave have sex with so many people? Was he married to all of them?" Stan asks, voicing the confusion of the rest of his friends.

Randy Marsh seemed to realize he backed himself into a corner there, and Miss Cartman looks smug. "No..." He begins, choosing his words carefully. "You can only be married to one person at a time in the state of Colorado."

"So he wasn't married to all those people, he just loved them," Butters states. His parents couldn't look more worried about their son if they tried.

This time, Mr Stotch gave it a try, "The point is not whether he loved them, because there will always be a disagreement there, but rather that... When you're older, you'll start to have all these weird feelings about girls, that might drive you to do stupid things."

"That's right," Randy says confidently, "When you decide to have sex with girls, when you're much older, it's our hope you're able to... Weigh if it's worth it or not. You might love them then, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea, so don't tie yourself down with... Unwanted pregnancies or broken promises. Be honest with them."

"But you just said Mr Slave was murdered for having sex with numerous men, how is that different?" Cartman asks innocently. I'm beginning to suspect at this point he's just goading them.

"It's not, honey," his mother says. She looks so proud of him.

"Yes it is," my mom cuts her off sharply. She looks at me, "Bubbala, don't have sex until you're married. There are lots of complications that come with it."

"I don't understand," I begin to say. "If I can't marry a man, then how can I have sex with him?"

That was the first time I can remember disappointing my parents. It was just a question. The other parents in the room gave my mom and dad sympathetic looks, while my mom went between horror and complete sadness, my dad remaining quiet as usual.

Cartman ended the night by being the first to call me a fag, and I snuck out of my house and returned to the crime scene. In the dark, I saw the body had been bagged and removed, but there was still the telling frozen pool of blood where the man had been tortured to death.

It was my first memory of actually feeling the cold.

/\/\/\


	7. Someone Must Get Hurt

**Chapter Seven: Someone Must Get Hurt**

My comatose sleep is interrupted by the incessant gurgling in my stomach, and I suddenly puke into a wire trash can, thoughtfully placed next to the bed I faintly recognized as not my own. I curl into the soft red comforter and wish away my head's splitting pain.

/\/\/\

The sun peeks through the splintered blinds and I blink my eyes open, not ready for the searing headache that followed. There's a fresh plastic water bottle on the nightstand with a sticky note that orders with a fluorescent pink flair, "drink!"

I oblige after shakily unscrewing the cap. I finally give my surroundings a once over, wondering what the fuck happened last night.

Cartman's room was even more a mess in the daylight. Iridescent spider webs traced the otherwise empty ceiling corners, the sprawling sticky notes and taped papers collabing a sky of exploding stars and sunsets of highlighters. There were small divots speckling every few inches of the faded green walls. One of his book piles had fallen over, the dirty floor a city, skyscrapers of newspapers and suburban sprawls of world history, with some blessings of literature and language thrown in.

I spot my scuffed combat boots carefully sorted with my duffle and clutch. There are no posters of naked women, just maps and models of guns, and a hand drawn meticulous sewer map with a jagged edge, probably ripped from a library book. There's a large calendar hanging on the door, covered in the same untidy Cartman writing marking the rest of the room, and I realize, on the gifted plastic water bottle.

The security camera hums above the closet, closing the aperture and zooming. I hear a pitiful meow; Mr Kitty is stretching out next to me on his favorite's bed, his grey belly confidently on show, judging me with one eye and sleeping with the other. Never being allowed a pet in my house, I'm nervous to extend a hand for fear of claws and teeth leaving sticky wet lines of blood. I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head and sleep forever, but I cannot stay here.

I sit up in the bed, too quickly, and the nausea stirs in my belly. Still, I do not want to be in _his_ bed, nor his room. I cannot think of a more uncomfortable place to wake up in. I attempt to stand, every movement haunting me with regretful, stupid moments of the night previous. I run my fingers through loose curls, trying to brush them out, and feel a colossal bump on the right side, throbbing and pulsating with every motion.

I realize I'm still in my very inappropriate black fishnet and black shorts, however I'm wearing my jacket. The camera follows me as I tiptoe toward the door, where the black clutch and duffle await.

Suddenly, the handle shakes and the door swings open, revealing the owner of the room. The hallway echoes with jolly voices traveling from downstairs. His hazel eyes catch my own and a grin breaks across his face.

"Lie down, Kahl," Cartman closes the door behind him, carrying a pill bottle in one hand and a flask of vodka in the other, like a figurine of justice for hangovers. He's wearing another of his never ending supply of black t shirts, this time with a spraypainted neon nuclear symbol. His large hairy feet poke out timidly from under the loose frayed jeans. He doesn't have to tell me twice, because I feel so shitty lying down is the only viable option.

I begrudgingly crawl back into his bed and groan into the creaky mattress. I hear a small something plop on the bed next to me and peer through my red curtain of hair, catching the sunlight and dully glowing like embers, to see my phone next to me.

"I texted your Jew mom," he says, winding between the piles of books and crumpled papers. He places the beer on the nightstand, and grabs the bottle of water, handing it to me.

"She thinks you stayed over at Stan's last night. You're welcome."

"How'd you know my password?" I ask, taking the plastic bottle from his outstretched hand.

"I didn't," he answers plainly. He sits on the other side of the bed and Mr Kitty rolls toward him, starting a long low purr. He smells fresh, like careful showers and eight hours of sleep.

"How'd you get in then?" I ask. I feel the plastic rim between my lips and drink the cool water eagerly, like a starved babe given milk.

"It's better if you don't know," his strong back says to me. "When you finish the water, sip some of the beer. It'll help. And then you should take one of these," he sadistically rattles the pill bottle at me, like he knows even that noise makes my head hurt. I dive my head back into the comforter and groan.

"Do I even want to know what happened last night?"

He laughs, "Aside from you falling on your head and begging me to save your ass, you stayed out until we got back here, then you started puking. That's it."

I search the recesses of my memory and realize his version was pretty accurate. "What about work?"

"Well, once that asian dude saw you passed out, he let you go home early. I had your black haired friend pretend you were going home with her, then I took you back here because she lived on the other side of town."

"How'd we get back here?"

"I have my mom's car. And it's not like you weigh much of anything," he said with disdain, continuing to scratch Mr Kitty, "Speaking of which, the rest of our lovely group returned from their adventure last night, remember that? They're eating pancakes and making a mess of my kitchen, but you should join them once you can. And eat something."

Mr Kitty pins Cartman's hand between his two fluffy paws and nibbles his knuckles lovingly, never stopping the persistent purr.

"Why am I in your room?"

"My mom's room is... indisposed," he said carefully, crafting the sentence to hide what was actually going on. "And you already saw my room last night. Yes I saw the video. Snooping Jew, the closet is locked for a reason. You tell anyone about what you saw in here and I'll tell everyone and your job." I lower my eyes, feeling a little guilty I let my curiosity get the best of me.

"You didn't have to do this," I murmur.

"Obviously you haven't looked at yourself in the mirror, Kahl. Your face is still covered in black shit. If they saw you like this, they also would have realized it was _you_ I bought the room with last night, and I don't need that kind of reputation."

He stands and begins to make his way back to the door, Mr Kitty followed the two legs with his four, still purring. His old distended belly swung as he plopped to the floor.

"See you downstairs. Bathroom's down the hall."

/\/\/\

Once I take a much-needed shower, take too many painkillers and puke again, I'm ready to rejoin society and venture downstairs. They he converged upon the dining room table, with Cartman sitting in the lazy boy previously located in the living room. He must have moved it for more seating, I realize, as he sips black coffee from a mug that says, "respect my authority."

"Hey, sleeping beauty is up!" Token says, pointing toward me with his fork, his mouth half full of syrup-soaked pancakes. I see they're all still in their clothes from yesterday, so I fit right in, wearing my daytime choices to conceal the nighttime ones.

"You're all bright eyed and bushy tailed," Butters says. Kenny pats me on the back as I take a seat between him and Token. The chair legs squeak against the wood flooring and I look between my group, their mouths smacking and eyes laughing.

"Good morning," I mutter.

"Well someone's hungover," Kenny says. Cartman holds a large ceramic plate toward me, piled with stacks bacon and hills of pancakes, so heavy I have to hold it with both hands.

"Syrup?" he offers, pouring it out of the glass spout and dousing my pancakes before I can say anything.

"That's enough," I jerk the plate away and syrup splatters on the dining table. Cartman frowns at my insubordination but I don't care, I already feel sick and too much saccharine syrup would not help that.

"Well while you passed out in his mom's room," Kenny said, unknowingly catching me up to speed on Cartman's lies, "We four decided to go on a magical adventure."

"We died and went to heaven," Craig added, elbowing Butters. "Just kidding, just a strip club. Named Angels, see that's the joke."

I stuff my mouth full of multiple huge bites worth of pancakes and nod, attempting to show jealousy and acknowledgement at how great it must have been.

Craig continues, "Butters had never been to one, so we thought taking him there would up his game a bit. Make him more normal around naked women."

"I'm plenty comfortable around naked women," the blonde childishly retorts. The rest respond by switching between laughing and rolling their eyes.

"Butters could barely keep his eyes off that asian chick last night," Token adds, syrup covering his lips.

"I liked Porsche the best," Butters says sheepishly. I vaguely wonder how she would respond to that, and make a mental note to ask her later.

"You should have come, Kyle, it would have been a blast. Cartman was there too," Kenny nods toward Cartman. The brunette shifts uncomfortably in the lazy boy and sips at his coffee.

"So I go to sleep and you all decide to go to a strip club without me? Do you all even have fake IDs?" I ask, attempting to make a joke of it and flash a smile. There's an empty chipped mug and some coffee left in the pot in front of me, so I pour myself a cup and scope out the location of the sugar packets.

"I paid the doorman," Kenny smiles slyly. "And no, this asshole was already there when we arrived. He apparently dipped out of his own party to go there," he turns and faces Cartman behind him. "So are you a regular or what? You should try Temptation, it's a little seedier but more divey, and some of the girls go all the way."

Cartman readjusts in the cushions, wanting to like he's not bothered but managing to look perturbed. "I go there from time to time."

"He bought a room," Token laughs and pops a strip of crispy bacon in his mouth. I look down at my gooey plate and push the food around a bit, trying to eyeball the ratio of maple syrup to single pancake and multiply the calories in my head.

"You must have really liked that girl," Kenny says, giving Cartman mild approval. "Is she the one you gave your cherry to?"

"The girls at that club don't turn tricks, Ken," Cartman leans over and pulls a newspaper from the floor; the large papers hissed as he flipped through them absentmindedly.

"But come on, tell me about her. I mean you bought the three thousand dollar room, you must have liked her-"

I expel hot coffee from my nose and cough loudly, some of the black liquid stuck in my lungs scalding the back of my throat.

"You okay man?" Craig pats me on the back in a gesture of concern while the others prattle on.

"So... Red heads," Kenny grins.

There's furious knocking at the front door. Cartman all-too-eagerly stands and throws the newspaper at Kenny, the sections exploding on impact and floating in separate directions of the dining room. We hear Cartman open the front door.

"Hey Stan," he says.

Both boys return to the dining room, one with a look of eager satisfaction and the other with annoyance at another loud guest. Stan, too, wears his clothes from the night before, crumpled and slightly smelling of sweat.

"Hey dude, what's up-" I begin.

"We did it," he says, exposing his crooked front teeth as he grins from ear to ear.

It takes a moment for me to process what he's saying, but Kenny was more up to speed. "Woohoo!" He says, quickly standing and patting him on the back. The rest applaud as I meet Cartman's eyes. He looks grateful for the distraction, and uses the moment to dart into the kitchen.

"I went to my first strip club," Butters admits proudly.

"Good for you dude!" Stan says, although he still seems lost in the night before, still grinning like he won the lottery.

/\/\/\

It was as if the weekend never happened. Wendy didn't sit with us at lunch, nor did she bother to talk to me in class, instead burying her nose in her work, and Stan didn't talk about it again, other to mention how much he loved Wendy, like a sap. Cartman skipped two days of school, letting me have some peace. Butters said he was busy with something, but honesty I was glad not to see him. Three thousand dollars.

Why the fuck would he spend that much on me, a pussy little faggot he reminded of such every time he laid eyes on me?

I worked again on Tuesday night, where it was surprisingly busy, because of a bachelor party, full of drooling mindless twenty year olds. Mercedes and Acura sat on two of their laps, leaving three open, and hungry. I walked by them on my way to my stage set, when one of the friends of the bachelor grabbed me by my wrist.

"Hey, you look familiar," this one says. He has sandy blonde hair. His eyes trail my body, attempting x-ray vision. "Haven't I seen you before?" he asks, slurring with an accent only described as drunk. With only two beers to one guy at this table, they must have been drinking elsewhere before.

"I don't think so, unless you've been here before." I reply, "I have a stage set right now, so give me a second and I'll be right back." An interested customer that's not going to blackmail me? Sign me up, take that Cartman. But he doesn't let go of my hand.

"No, I mean at the club the other night… there was this redhead all up on me, and I swear you look just like her…" His buddies guffaw at him as he half smiles at me.

I cringe at the thought, whatever he is, he is not my type. "No, I'm sorry, that wasn't me."

"Well, it could be you. Tonight, me and the guys are going back there, care to join us?" he pulls me closer, his breath reeking of cheap beer.

"No thank you, I have a long shift tonight so even if I wanted to-

"Come on baby," one of his friends says. "It would be fun- we'd love to see you on the dance floor." He licks his lips, calling to mind a hungry wolf.

Suddenly the sandy blonde pulls me onto him, "I saw her first, I want a lap dance." A split second later, his hand wanders down my stomach and rests on my tight tight latex shorts. His fingers explore my area for a moment and his eyes grow wide.

"Shit!" He yells, standing and pushing me off, I fall backward into the dirty alcohol-soaked carpet. "This is a guy!" The shock and disgust on his face quickly dissolve into pure rage. "You fucking faggot, you tricked me!"

My head reels as I stand, trying to think of a way out of this. My tail bone throbs with pain. "You never asked, I didn't know if you were-"

"What? Gay?" His face boils red under his skin as he seems to get angrier and angrier, "I'm at a fucking _strip club_ , why would I be gay?!"

"Your mistake, asshole," a familiar voice behind me says, "He is obviously a faggot, which makes you a bigger faggot by default," Cartman says smartly. I look over my shoulder and catch the familiar catlike grin.

"Fuck you!" The sandy blonde yells. Acura and Mercedes glance around fearfully from their comfy human chairs, unsure of what to do, while the rest of his group hesitate in their booth seats. Where is the bouncer?!

The sandy blonde lunges toward me and I react by jumping out of the way. There's a sickening crunch as his fist makes contact with Cartman's cheekbone. Blood is falling from where his nose used to be, but the brunette does not flinch. In one swift movement, it's the sandy blonde that's doubling over in pain, holding his stomach. When he removes his hands from the aforementioned place, there's blood spreading through his white cotton, creating a dark red stain of abstract art.

Cartman holds his switchblade in his right hand, the sandy blonde's blood dribbling down the silver. "Dare to try that again?" He says menacingly, his eyes too small to let light in. I am barely able to recognize him, between the red bloody imprint on half his face, and the crazed smile.


End file.
